I Shall Not Want
by Red River
Summary: Castiel had expected to be able to feel it—had expected Sam's hand to be warm with hellfire, with a taint two decades old. But it was cool to the touch, just a human hand. Reflections on Sam and Castiel's first meeting, rotating POV. Mild AU/canon divergence. Part of the Other Guardian 'verse.
1. Castiel

A/N: This is the first story in a mild AU/canon divergence series I've been writing with a friend, called The Other Guardian 'verse. There's a detailed note about it on my profile page, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

This story is set right after Dean is raised from Hell - it borrows from the events of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester," when Sam and Castiel met for the first time, but there's no raising of Samhain here. Centers on the characters' impressions after this iconic meeting. Sam and Castiel centric.

Warnings: None.

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**I Shall Not Want**

Castiel preferred the roofs of churches. There was a coldness and solitude that could not be touched when he stood between the arch of flying buttresses and the glitter of stained glass, staring out into the gray of a winter storm. The snow had obliterated the heads of the gargoyles along the gutter, turned them into formless monsters with stunted wings, hunched at the edge of the roof as if they feared the crippling fall. Castiel stepped into the space between two of them and squinted through the blowing snow.

The town was all but silent. A few cars rattled through the streets below him, spewing gray clouds of exhaust and skidding on the icy asphalt, but most of the world as it spread out from the church was stillness and white sidewalks and trees bent under the weight of the snowfall. The Winchesters' hotel was just visible in the distance, its red shingles barely showing through layers of blown snow. Castiel could easily have stood on that roof instead, amid the air conditioners and the detritus of broken branches, withered leaves, extinguished cigarettes. The church had seemed close enough.

A flurry of snowflakes brushed against his hand, motionless at his side; the second sensation he had ever felt through that skin. Castiel lifted it slowly, examining his palm and the flex of his fingers. It had seemed small, suddenly, compared to the other hand, the long fingers wrapped around his with such enthusiasm, such desperation. It had taken two hands to cover Sam Winchester's. He had not expected that.

Castiel had hardly been aware of him at first—the younger brother. He had preceded Dean into the hotel room, weapon drawn, but Castiel's attention had been fixed a few feet behind him on the racing pulse of his primary charge, the one who had struggled so as he was dragged from Hell that Castiel's hand had seared into his shoulder. It wasn't until the gun dropped, and understanding dawned on Sam Winchester's face, that Castiel sensed him as anything more than a shadow presence, footsteps a beat out of sync with Dean's. The greeting had been automatic.

_Hello, Sam._

Castiel did not know what he had been expecting from Sam Winchester. He hadn't thought he was expecting anything at all. But he had been surprised how quickly the lines of the young man's face opened up, lost all sharpness. Suspicion, adrenaline, and a fragment of what Castiel suspected to be fear, hardened over the long years until it looked like fearlessness—all of those were swept away by awe, by faith, by the eagerness of his open hand extended hopefully into the space between them.

Castiel had heard thousands of voices raised in prayer, not only asking but believing, searching for an answer of any kind, for anything reaching back. He wondered if the expression Sam wore at that moment, when he held out his hand, was the same as those hundreds of thousands of souls might have worn as they made their devotions.

_Oh my God. Er… ah… I didn't mean to… sorry. It's an honor. Really. I've heard a lot about you._

Castiel stared out into the snow and relived the details of Sam's features at that instant—his lips parted on a drawn breath, his eyes wide above a tentative smile, the lift in his shoulders. He wore his faith right there on his face—the deep, heartfelt faith of a true believer, faith that had weathered many storms, battered but never broken. Sam was different from Dean—Castiel knew it at that moment, though he did not care.

_And I you._

Castiel had expected to be able to feel it in his hand—had expected it to be warm with hellfire, with a taint two decades old. But it was cool to the touch, just a human hand. Castiel cupped it in both of his and marveled at how cold those fingertips were, so susceptible to a few minutes outside in the snow, as mortal and fragile as any other hand.

_Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood._

The lines had returned to his face suddenly, his expression pinched, confused, as if his entire soul were crying out _Wait, wait._ Castiel wondered if his words, though correct, had somehow been wrong. But Uriel had taken over then, put Sam in his place, explained their arrangement to the Winchesters—that there might be consequences of Dean's time in Hell that Heaven could not yet foresee, and that Castiel would be nearby, an angel if not a guardian. Castiel had let his subordinate do the majority of the talking, because Uriel was far more accustomed than he to communication with lesser beings. But throughout the conversation his attention had drifted again and again to his fingertips, still reeling from the sensation of brushing against cool skin, skin that should have burned with the blood of the damned, should have sizzled against his—but did nothing, was nothing but human. Castiel turned his hand over and caught a cluster of snowflakes on his palm, and looked out over the world, and wondered.

"See something you like?"

The flutter of folding wings reached him at the same time as the words, and Castiel glanced over his shoulder, the dark-skinned vessel behind him standing out sharply against the white slope of the church roof. The black suit he wore was dusted with snowflakes before his wings had even settled at his back.

"Uriel." Castiel watched his brother angel for a moment, and then turned back to the storm, lowering the hand he had been considering to his side. "I thought you had already returned to Heaven."

There was the whisper of a shoe in the snow, Uriel shifting one foot. "Soon." Castiel heard the crunch of steady steps, and then Uriel stepped up beside him at the edge of the drop, the frozen wings of a disfigured gargoyle rising between them. Uriel looked down as a truck thundered past the church, hunks of brown slush flying from its wheel. "You are staying," Uriel said.

Castiel followed the truck with his eyes. "For now. I will return to the garrison as soon as I am able. I don't expect this to interfere with our normal operations."

A deep chuckle rumbled up from Uriel's throat. It was a strange sound to hear from another angel—amusement that had always been metaphysical reduced to vibrations in the air.

"Take your time, Castiel. This is no ordinary assignment, after all. This is divine will of the highest importance."

Castiel didn't care to look beyond words in most circumstances. But there was an undercurrent to Uriel's voice, a curling sneer, that he could not ignore. Castiel turned far enough to study the derision on his brother's face.

"You disagree," he said.

Uriel scoffed. "Never. The will of Heaven is absolute. I only wish to know what greater plan we're fulfilling that involves catering to such filth."

Castiel exchanged stares with Uriel's dark, unreadable eyes. "You are dangerously close to blasphemy."

Uriel tipped his head, his gaze flitting from the ground to the twisted face of the gargoyle before it snapped back to Castiel. "If I confess myself, will you forgive me?"

Castiel turned away. He stared into the gray clouds grappling in the sky above them, the endless snowflakes the shrapnel of their clash, and felt Uriel's grace pulsing beside him—too close to pride, to rage, to be pure light. He waited for the throb of emotions to subside, let Uriel remember himself, as he always did, in moments of silence. Then he shifted at the edge of the roof and watched a flicker of snowflakes surrender to the fall, spiraling down to the white steps of the church.

"Return," he said, nodding once. "The garrison is to be under your charge in my absence."

An expression of interest flickered over Uriel's face. "You trust me with that."

It was not a question, not quite a statement. Uriel knew that the choice was not his, wasn't looking for an affirmation. Castiel wasn't sure what he was looking for. Perhaps just a reaction. Castiel turned and found his brother's eyes fixed on his face, waiting, curiosity or fascination curling the line of his stoic lips. Castiel frowned.

"Trust is not an issue." He paused, weighing his words, and glanced out over the city again, measuring the snowfall on the red roof slowly disappearing from view. "When Lucifer challenged God and the laws of Heaven, he declared himself, and battled, and fell. Deceit is not in our nature."

Uriel's laugh was a puff of air at his lips, a flicker of steam disappearing in the wind. "You always did mind your history."

For an instant, all was silence, Castiel watching Uriel and Uriel watching him in return, and waiting, Castiel was sure, though what he was waiting for was unknowable. Then Uriel stepped up to the very edge of the roof, the tips of his shoes hanging over the void, and Castiel felt him unfurl his wings, their great spread dwarfing the gargoyle held captive under the snow.

"Well, you have your orders," Uriel said, the black suit of his borrowed form flapping in the wind.

Castiel pressed his lips together. "I will protect the Winchesters."

Uriel's dark eyes stared into him. "Dean Winchester. The other is of no consequence." Then he turned his back, and the snowflakes swirled around them, displaced by the movement of his beating wings. "I don't know how you can touch that, Castiel, knowing where it's been."

Castiel said nothing as Uriel's wings burst forth and he disappeared into the cloudbreak, the wind exploding over the roof in the absence of his presence. He said nothing but in his mind he reconsidered the wonder on Sam's face, and the cool skin of his hand, and discarded Uriel's exclusion. Because Uriel's emotions ran too high when it came to the sons of man. Because it would be more trouble to keep them separate in his mind than to watch over both. Because they were all as children before the soldiers of God. Because they were human hands. Castiel closed his eyes and felt the snow on his face, and erased the distinction, from his mind and from his task. He would protect the Winchesters. Anything else was far too complicated.


	2. Sam

A/N: This is the first story in a mild AU/canon divergence series I've been writing with a friend, called The Other Guardian 'verse. There's a detailed note about it on my profile page, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

This story is set right after Dean is raised from Hell - it borrows from the events of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester," when Sam and Castiel met for the first time, but there's no raising of Samhain here. Centers on the characters' impressions after this iconic meeting. Part two - Sam's perspective.

Note: This chapter authored by my friend AccidentaLeft, who can be found on YouTube.

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Sam wasn't sure exactly what he had told Dean before his brother had taken off to find a bar, some combination of words that started with _I'm fine_ but was so far from the truth he wasn't sure how he managed to get them past his lips. Maybe because some part of him was still frozen, unable to walk away from that moment, unable to let go of the angel's hand that was pulling him up and dragging him under at the same time.

His heart had started beating too fast as soon as he was alone in the motel room, staring at cheap curtains and the pair of empty beds. Sometimes his heart still jumped into his throat when he realized the word _single_ was at the tip of his tongue. Blood pumped through his ears, and suddenly he needed to be anywhere but where he was. Sam lurched into motion, barely remembering to pocket his key before stumbling out the door into the bright sunshine of the afternoon.

He vaguely remembered using the crosswalk, some part of him knowing instinctively where he was heading, even as he froze at the bottom of the steps that led up to the church. It was a tall stone building with a cracked tower that looked like it had once held a bell, and small, high stained glass windows. A statue of Mary stood by the door, reaching her hands out as though to accept all of God's children.

Sam ducked his head, watching his brown shoes beat against the worn steps. The door was unlocked, open, like most churches, to anyone who wandered in off the street. Sam felt his heart clutch suddenly as he looked around the spacious church, rows and rows of wooden benches framing a path that led to a small altar with a silver bowl and tall bronze candlesticks. Colored light filtered in through the stained glass to sparkle in the space beneath the vaulted ceiling. A piano sat just behind the altar, and the far wall was filled with enclaves, each of them occupied by a table covered in hundreds and hundreds of unlit candles.

He meant to take a seat in the back row, duck his head, but that frozen piece of him was moving again, forcing him all the way down the silent aisle until he stood before the alter. Soft blue light refracted from the halo around a stained glass angel high above him, and Sam felt a prickling behind his eyes.

"It's not fair," he said quietly. There was something infinitely childish about the words even in Sam's ears, but he couldn't find anything else to say. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the wetness to go away, willing the feelings to go away.

But it was so unfair. Sam's fists curled at his side

Bought by Azazel before he was born, sold by his father and his grief into a life a hunting, and traded by his brother from salvation for…this. He had been so alone after Dean, with nothing left except the memory of broken things, a list of people he'd had a hand in killing. Hated by people, hated by other hunters, and hated by the demons who loved to watch Azazel's boy king suffer.

And he'd wanted to buy something with his tainted soul, use it to save the one person that mattered most from eternal damnation and suffering. So he'd taken his fate and his curse and his filthy legacy and tried to make something good out of it. The one thing he'd tried to do right in his life, and he was wrong. So wrong.

Sam opened his eyes, the tears he had been holding back sliding down his cheeks, dripping from his chin into his collar as he looked up at the rays of the sun gleaming in the glass.

"How can you possibly be so cruel?" His fists were shaking, and he forced his fingers to straighten at his sides, shaking his head back and forth as though to deny something.

He had prayed every day to have Dean back, to trade places with him; sometimes at the bottom of the bottle he just prayed to join him. The benevolent angel stared down at him with kind blue eyes that made his hands burn with phantom warmth. And suddenly all that blood pumping through him was anger, rising up and squeezing his chest.

"Why would you condemn me for this?" Sam demanded. His hands shot out and with one shove he swept everything from the top of the altar. Brass candlesticks clattered onto the floor and the silver bowl spun round and round against the flagstones. Sam stared down at the chaos, breathing heavily. A thousand empty, unanswered prayers, a thousand moments of darkness, with silent angels waiting in the wings, and the one thing he had done was wrong.

The bowl stilled, leaving Sam in the silence—and then as suddenly as it had come, all the anger was gone, leaving only a bone-weary tiredness in him. He felt immediately guilty, and fell to his knees, trying to gather the spilled contents of the altar. Quick footsteps on the stone alerted Sam to the fact that he was no longer alone; he supposed he should have realized that his outburst would get someone's attention.

His eyes flickered to the door, still unlocked at the other end of the church, contemplated the distance and the speed of feet that were getting far too used to running away—but in the end he just lifted another candlestick into his hands, stayed where he was. Whatever happened, he had it coming anyway.

He was still on his knees when the father walked up. He was an older man, with a grey beard and wrinkles around his eyes, his expression pinched as he took in the scene before him.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I didn't mean…I'm sorry." It was all he could think to say. The man looked at Sam for a moment, studying him with thoughtful gray eyes—and whatever he saw in the tall hunter's face, he didn't start yelling or threaten to call the cops like Sam expected. Instead his expression softened and he knelt down, gathering the candlesticks that had rolled beyond the hunter's reach. Sam picked up the silver bowl and held it as reverently as his tained, shaking hands could manage.

"You know," the father started. He had a soft voice that reminded Sam achingly of Father Gregory, and Sam wondered if this was the man that the priest should have become. "We all feel like God has abandoned us sometimes."

Sam glanced up, standing slowly, as the father did the same. He met the gray eyes warily, but the father's expression held nothing but understanding, and Sam wondered what he must look like right then, with red, teary eyes, crawling around the church floor in his flannel and ripped jeans. Maybe all priests took a seminar on Crises of Faith 101, the same way nurses took Psychotic Breaks 101.

"Father," Sam began slowly, and he wasn't sure if he was going to apologize again, or just beg for forgiveness. He set the bowl back down on the table gently, and the father moved to the space beside him, lining the empty candlesticks up one by one.

"You don't have to tell me anything, son," the man said, and a slight smile played around his eyes and lips. "The way I see it, God isn't just around to pray to. He's around to yell at sometimes, too."

Sam felt a small huff of laughter on his lips. The shining silver bowl reflected the movements of the father's arm as he replaced the last bronze candlestick. And suddenly Sam realized the only thing that mattered was that in the end his prayer had been answered. Dean was back, and the rest—well. He had what he needed.

Sam looked at the father a little sheepishly, taking an awkward step back from the altar. "Father, there's a prayer I'd like to say, but I don't remember…"

He trailed off but the older man nodded encouragingly. "Do you know any part of it?"

Sam bit his lip. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

"Ah. Psalm 23. A good prayer." The father gestured toward the wooden bench, waiting until Sam was seated before sitting down next to him. Sam let his head fall forward, staring at his hands as the priest cleared his throat and tipped his head back.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…" The father's warm voice seemed to hang in the air, and Sam tried to engrave the words somewhere in his heart, remember them. He folded his hands and lay his forehead against the line of his knuckles. He had to let go of the anger, the expectations, the image of angels he'd held for so long—feathered wings, forgiveness, and especially soft hands. The father's voice continued, and somehow the breath wasn't so heavy and desperate in Sam's chest anymore.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…"

Sam stayed seated on the bench long after the father had finished the prayer and begun bustling around, gathering long white candles. There was one certain truth: he was who he was, and his past was set in stone, but his future didn't have to be. _I am not evil_, Sam whispered in his heart, and he could only hope God was listening.


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